"She's a good girl," he said at last, staring at his hands.
"She's probably better than I deserve. I should have told her what I was coming here to face. I should have warned her, especially after those phone calls started, but I was too caught up in my own past to notice the present, or to worry about the future. Now I've given Greene a hold on me he didn't have before—a distraction that I don't even know if I can ignore."
"The strength for moments like these doesn't come from you, boy," Barbara told him.
She reached out and laid her hand lightly on his arm. "If it was just up to us, we'd all have marks on our foreheads and things would be a sight worse, even, than they are."
"You mean God?" Abe asked.
His skepticism must have shown, because his aunt's features hardened again.
"Yes, God," she replied.
"But not just that. You know it's more than that, Abe.
You may have moved away, but some things burn themselves so deep into a person's soul they can't be shaken off by years or our own desire. The mountain is with you. The strength of this place, of those who've gone before us, and of those who will come. The power to resist is in your blood, and in mine. We should have been closer, Abe.
We should have accepted your Ma into our family and treated her as one of our own, but we didn't.
I'll never be able to properly show you how badly I feel about that."
"She…"
Barbara cut him off.
"I know, son, I know. She's dead.
We move on. I'll tell you something now I never would have said in your father's day.
I wish your ma were with us now.
I wish I could talk to her right now about what's happened to my Elspeth.
I wish, when we start down that trail, that she'd be with us."
Abe stroked the pendant around his neck thoughtfully and stared out the front door of the chapel. "She's with us," he said softly.
"She's with me.
In a way, she always has been."
Others began to trickle in then, and Abe fell silent, returning to his place at the front of the church. He bowed his head, as if in prayer, and listened as footsteps dragged over stone.
Men and women shuffled in and took seats along the stone pews, but he didn't watch or greet them.
He heard hushed voices and felt the weight of their combined gaze, but he held his silence. He took one deep breath after another and calmed himself. He was not standing before them as Abraham Carlson, but as their spiritual leader.
He knew the words. He knew the rituals and all the right things to say about nearly any situation that might arise. What he didn't know, and they didn't know, was if he had the faith to make it real.
It was a lesson they'd learn together soon enough.
The sun crossed over noon and headed down the side of the mountain, and when he heard the door to the church pulled closed, he raised his head, scanned the half-empty pews and the fearful, expectant eyes, and began to speak. The words flowed easily, and he scarcely recognized his voice. To Abe it was his father's voice speaking through him. The words were gifts he'd held and treasured, and now returned.
He followed the rituals precisely.
They expected no less. He spoke, and when the moments arrived, they responded. It was acknowledgment of his leadership. Together, they offered themselves, body and spirit, mind and soul to the mountain, and called for it to lend its strength in return. The air was electric with energy, and when their voices rose in song they shook the stone walls and shivered through the stone beneath them.
It was a short service, and when it was complete, they sat in silence. Their heads were bowed, and Abraham lowered his as well. He scarcely recalled what he'd said, but he knew that every word had been correct. He had not faltered in his litany, and they had not failed to respond.
He didn't raise his gaze from the stone altar, but he spoke again.
"I am the heart," he said. "I carry the blood of my father, and the blood of your fathers. I carry the blood of the mountain. Who will be my arm?"
Silence followed, then, drawn by the moment and the words, Harry George stood and stepped into the center aisle.
He knelt there on the cold stone and responded.
"I will be your arm. I bear the sword of truth." Harry rose, and stepped up to stand beside Abraham.
When his head was bowed, Abe spoke again.
"Who will balance my arm and carry the light of the sun to the shadows of the world?"
Jacob rose without hesitation and knelt as Harry had. "I will bear that light," he said. Then he rose and joined Abe and Harry behind the altar.
The ritual was the calling of the elders. Some of those who'd stood beside his father that long ago night remained, and he'd known they would stand with him. The others he was less sure of. It wasn't enough to answer the call.
There were duties and responsibilities for each of them, and none of it could be neglected. If any single section of the cross he was forming failed, they all failed.
Abe took a deep breath and continued.
"Who will be my eyes and my ears? Who will watch the sky and lay their ear to the mountain's bone?
Who will be my head?"
Barbara Carlson rose without hesitation. She stepped into the center aisle, stared straight ahead, then knelt and laid her forehead to the stone floor.
"I will be your head," she said in a strong, even voice. "I will watch the sky and hear the mountain."
She rose, walked to the altar, and turned.
She knelt before the altar, her back to Abe, and bowed her head.
This was the moment of truth. None of the others present had been an elder in Jonathan Carlson's day.
There were plenty of the faithful on hand, but that would not be enough. Someone needed to step forward and complete the cross.
"Who will be my back?" Abe asked solemnly.
"Who will bear the weight of our sin and the flag of our hope? Who will watch what has come before for the truth of what shall be?"
There was a rustle of feet. Someone coughed. Abe's brow coated in sweat, and his heart raced. If none stepped forward the ritual would be broken.
A throat cleared, but Abe did not raise his eyes.
He could not lead them into this choice, and he didn't trust his eyes not to show the desperation he felt. He tried to wipe thoughts of Katrina away and to concentrate, but he heard her voice echoing in his head. "No secrets."
Footsteps rang on the stone, and then stopped. "I will be your back."
The voice wavered slightly.
It was high pitched, but it carried nicely.
Abe breathed a sigh of relief. It was Cyrus Bates. Cyrus was older than any of them. He'd been on the mountain when Abe's father first stepped to this pulpit.
He had never been an elder, but he'd seen more sunrises and sunsets on the mountain than any living being Abe knew of.
Rail thin, but with the lean strength of a rawhide whip, Cyrus was the perfect completion to the cross. He knelt in the aisle slowly.
The silence was deep and edged with power.
Cyrus spoke again.
"I will bear the weight of the sins of our fathers. I will bear the flag of our faith. I guard what has come before that we may plan for the future."
He rose and climbed onto the altar.
He passed Jacob so closely that the sleeves of their shirts brushed. Cyrus took his place directly behind Abe and the four of them remained in place for a moment of silence. Abe raised his head and swept his eyes over the small gathering. At that moment he felt as if he could face down any threat. He was ready to step over the altar of the white church, sledgehammer in hand, and turn the pool and its false promises of cleansing into rubble.
He knew these were dangerous thoughts, and he suppressed them quickly.
He concentrated and the words returned him to the moment.
"We are complete and stand as one," he said.
"The heart beats, the sword and the sun stand ready, the eyes and ears are vigilant, and the weight of darkness cannot shake us."
"Amen." This single word was formed of all their voices. It was one sound, one voice, powerful and sure.
Abe scanned the faces uplifted before him. He couldn't see the elders, but there was plenty of time for that. The five of them would leave the church and climb the mountain to the cottage when the service ended. There were secrets to be shared, and not much time remained for that sharing.
He saw no doubt. Each of them met his gaze with confidence and a bright, burning light in their eyes. Most of them had lost someone to the white church below. Most of them had sat on these same stone pews when Abraham's father taught his message of peace and unity. Each bond drew them together more tightly. The room hummed with an energy and light that could not have been explained by the day's bright sunlight, or the whisper of voices.
He didn't speak again.
He pulled the cross, with its gleaming, equal arms from beneath his shirt and held it in his hands. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. As he stood there, Barbara Carlson kneeling before him, Cyrus Bates at his back, and his two arms, Harry and Jacob, their heads bent in equally solemn postures of prayer, standing to either side, the moment dissolved.
He heard them rise. He heard the shuffling of their feet, and the whisper of their voices. He heard them leave, one by one, stepping into the late afternoon sunlight and dispersing like dust in a strong wind. When he finally raised his head and surveyed the chapel, it was empty.
"Will they come?" he asked.
The words weren't directed at any one person, but at all four of those who remained.
"They'll come," Cyrus spoke from behind him. "A lot of bad, dark things have happened on this mountain. There's a lot of water under a lot of bridges. Their kin are dancing with the devil in that white abomination on down the mountain, and when it comes to family, they will always come.
The blood flows in and out of the stone."
Abe felt the truth of it. He heard whispered voices belonging to none of those present, and he thought he recognized those of his parents in the mix. He was alive with a vitality he could not explain.
"We have a climb ahead of us," Barbara said.
She rose and turned. "We'd best get to it."
Abe nodded, and they followed the others out the front of the old church. They turned up the second trail, and Abe marveled at how clear the ground was. The encroaching, shadowy branches of the trees had lifted away, and the ground was free of branches and leaves.
"No secrets," he whispered under his breath.
He felt mocking laughter in the wind. In two hours the sun would set. They climbed quickly, and they did not look back.
Angel Murphy sat against the wall of the barn and stared at his captive. He was cloaked in shadow, out of her sight, and she had no way to know he was there. He'd watched her off and on from the moment he'd laid eyes on her.
She was a pretty girl, and her fright only served to enhance this. Angel hadn't seen a pretty girl in a very long time, other than cousins and a few too young, or old, to be of interest.
The air in the old barn was musty.
The animals were pastured, so there were no scuffling hooves or grunts in the background. Angel wished there were, because it could have masked any sounds he might make. He didn't want her to know he was there.
Not yet. He didn't want to hear her voice again until he had to.
It was too easy to imagine things she might say, promises she might make if she were frightened enough. "Watch her," Silas had said.
"Watch her carefully, but don't touch her. We may need her before this is done." The problem was that despite Silas' orders, Angel needed her now. He had stood silently by as his brother Tommy hunted down the Carlson girl. Elspeth was too young, Angel thought, too naïve and not yet fully formed. She was a girl, but Angel needed a woman. She squirmed in her bonds and shifted against the far wall. The sunlight that leaked in through the front door of the barn slowly spread across the floor toward her.
Already one of her feet and a single slender ankle poked into the light. As the sun lowered in the west, more of her would be illuminated, until just before twilight fell, she'd be lit and fully visible, bound and dusty from her struggles.
Angel couldn't see her clearly, but he remembered a single strand of dark hair that curled down along her neck. It had matted with sweat and tears the day before, then streaked as dust plastered it to her face. Angel wanted to brush that strand of hair back. He wanted to lay his palm flat on her face and turn her eyes up to meet his gaze. He wanted to see what the hunger in his eyes brought out in her own. He still tasted her fear.
The girl shifted again, and her calf slid into the beam of sunlight. Angel traced the curve upward and remembered strong thighs, slim hips. Her hair distracted him. It was long and dark, like his mother's hair had been.
He thought about running his fingers through it—gripping it and holding her still so that he could see her eyes. He grew uncomfortable and sat up a little straighter.